Malicious Prosecution
by heisey
Summary: Nelson & Murdock take the case of a boxer framed for murder. To clear his name, Foggy, Matt, and Karen – and Daredevil – have to stop a serial killer. Post-Daredevil season 3.
1. Chapter 1

"To establish a malicious prosecution claim under New York law, a plaintiff must prove (1) the initiation or continuation of a criminal proceeding against plaintiff; (2) termination of the proceeding in plaintiff's favor; (3) lack of probable cause for commencing the proceeding; and (4) actual malice as a motivation for defendant's actions." _Manganiello v. City of New York_ (2d Cir. 2010) 612 F.3d 149, 161.

 _Chapter 1_

Rosalie Carbone had a problem, a big one: her son, Nick. Smart and good-looking, he had a superficial charm that fooled most people. Not her. She'd known what he was from an early age. When she looked into his eyes, she saw nothing: no conscience, no remorse, no soul. This was not necessarily a bad thing. These were useful traits in someone who would someday take over the family business. But only up to a point. Now she was concerned Nick had crossed that line. A few months ago, she started noticing that he was disappearing for several days with no explanation, every couple of weeks. After the second occurrence, she assigned her top lieutenant, Carlo Morelli, to find out what Nick was up to. Morelli reported that Nick was snatching hookers off the street and taking them to family properties in Hell's Kitchen, mostly vacant warehouses or tenements. They all turned up dead a day or two later. This was not good. Rosalie didn't care about the women – they were expendable. But Nick's risky behavior could endanger everything she'd worked so hard to build. She had to make sure that didn't happen. She consulted Morelli, and together they came up with a plan.

* * *

Maleek Jackson walked out of Fogwell's Gym and turned right, walking at a brisk pace toward his Hell's Kitchen apartment. His sparring session had gone longer than planned, and he stayed on afterward to get in some extra work on the speed bag and the treadmill. Now he was looking forward to getting home before his five-year-old daughter, Malia, went to bed. And he had news – big news – for his wife, Melody. Sure, it was only an undercard, but it would be his first professional bout – and his first professional paycheck. Maybe, just maybe, he could quit one of his two day jobs. Lost in happy anticipation, he walked along the cracked sidewalk.

As he passed the mouth of an alley, a sound intruded on his reverie. It was coming from the alley and sounded like a moan. Uncertain of what he was hearing, but thinking it must be an animal – a rat, probably – he continued on his way. Then he heard it again. This time it sounded human. He turned around and went into the dark alley. A woman was on the ground, propped up against a dumpster. Blood was oozing from wounds to her neck, her chest, and . . . other places. Maleek knelt next to her. He pulled off his jacket and pressed it against the chest wound with one hand, while reaching for his phone with the other hand. Suddenly, he heard someone yelling.

"Freeze!" Maleek turned around and saw a shadowy figure. The person was pointing a flashlight at him, blinding him.

"She needs help!" Maleek exclaimed. He turned back to the bleeding woman and pulled his phone from his pocket. The impact of the bullet hitting his back propelled him forward, leaving him lying face down, across the woman's legs. As he lost consciousness, Maleek felt only confusion. Who would shoot him, and why?

Carlo Morelli watched the scene unfold from the driver's seat of his SUV, parked across the street from the mouth of the alley. Once the mark was down, the police officer who shot him put on a pair of gloves and pulled a handgun from an ankle holster. He wiped the gun throughly with a handkerchief and placed it in the mark's right hand, pressing his fingertips to the gun's surface. His partner waved in Morelli's direction, as if to say, "We got this." Morelli nodded to himself. The officer who did the shooting would be riding a desk for a while, but he would be well compensated for it. So far, so good, Morelli thought with a satisfied smile as he drove away. Now all they had to do was keep Nick in check until the mark was convicted – or dead.

* * *

 **KILLER STALKS HELL'S KITCHEN STREETWALKERS**

Special Report to the _Bulletin_

By Karen Page

Unnoticed by the general public, several recent killings have prostitutes in Hell's Kitchen on edge. Detective Sergeant Brett Mahoney of the 15th Precinct has confirmed to the _Bulletin_ that detectives are actively investigating six homicides committed in the past four months. All of the victims worked as prostitutes, and their bodies were found in several different locations throughout Hell's Kitchen. Details of the crimes are not being made public at this time, Mahoney said, for "investigative reasons."

Police sources, who spoke on condition of anonymity, said there were striking similarities among the crimes. "It's almost like a signature," one source commented. They believe the murders are the work of a serial killer, dubbed the "Hell's Kitchen Hooker Killer," or "HK2."

A possible break in the case occurred last night, with the arrest of Hell's Kitchen resident Maleek Jackson, 28. A professional boxer, Jackson was found kneeling next to the body of a dying woman in an alley near 46th and 10th. An officer shot Jackson when he pulled a gun from his waistband. He is now in custody, in the jail ward at Metro-General. Police have not identified the victim, who was pronounced dead at the scene. Sources have confirmed she worked as a prostitute and was known on the streets as "Candy Apple." Women who worked the streets with her said she had not been seen for two days before she was found. Police are being tight-lipped about whether she is HK2's latest victim, and whether any evidence connects Jackson to the other killings. When asked about a possible connection, Mahoney would only say, "The investigation is ongoing." A spokeswoman for the District Attorney's office confirmed the case has been referred to them, and a charging decision will be made in the near future.

 _Karen Page is an investigator with the Hell's Kitchen-based law firm of Nelson & Murdock and an occasional contributor to the _Bulletin.

* * *

 _Two Weeks Later_

Matt Murdock tapped lightly on the door to Fogwell's Gym. He was looking forward to getting in a good workout this evening. It had been a long day in court, made worse by the antics of opposing counsel. He still couldn't believe the idiot had actually passed the bar. And the judge wasn't much better. Probably some politician's worthless brother-in-law. When the door opened, he held out a folded bill to the locker room attendant who had stayed late to admit him. "Thanks, Curtis," he said. He set his gym bag down on the bench next to the ring and started to wrap his hands and wrists.

Curtis took the bill but didn't leave immediately, as he usually did. He hesitated, standing next to the doorway. Matt sensed his uncertainty and turned to face him. "Something on your mind?" he asked.

"Uh, yeah . . . I guess," Curtis stammered, looking around as if seeking guidance.

"It'll be easier if you just spit it out," Matt said softly.

Curtis studied the floor for a moment, then looked up and said, "You remember Lenny Jackson, used to spar with your dad?"

Matt nodded. "Sure."

"His son, he's all grown up like you now – he's a boxer, trains here. And he's in trouble, real bad trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"The legal kind."

"Tell me about it."

"Oh, God, they think he killed that hooker," Curtis replied, the words spilling out of him. "There's no way . . . I mean, I've known him since he was a little boy. He's got a wife, a little daughter . . . ." He caught his breath noisily. "His dad, he's sick worrying about him. Cops shot him when they arrested him. And Lenny doesn't think the Legal Aid lawyer they gave him is up to the job. Can you help him? Please?"

Matt frowned. "Maybe. He already has a lawyer, so I can't make any promises. But I remember him, from when we were kids. I'll talk to Lenny, maybe talk to his attorney, see how things stand. This is Maleek you're talking about, right?"

Curtis nodded. "Yeah. Maleek Jackson."


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2_

As he climbed the stairs to the fourth-floor walk-up apartment, Matt considered what he knew about the man he was going to see: Leonard "Lenny" Jackson. Before the accident that left him blind, Matt had seen Lenny spar with his dad, Jack, many times. He no longer remembered what the man looked like – not after years of total blindness. But he still retained an impression of the quickness and agility that earned Lenny his professional moniker: "The Leopard." After a long day of training, Jack used to complain that Lenny was "slippery." Matt smiled at the memory.

Matt reached the fourth-floor landing and turned toward the apartment with an open door. The man standing in the doorway called out to him, "Over here, Matty!" Matt made his way to Lenny, who took a step back and clapped both his hands on Matt's shoulders. He held Matt at arms' length and exclaimed, "Look at you! Little Matty Murdock, all grown up, and a lawyer, by god!" Matt smiled and held out his hand. After they shook hands, Matt folded his cane, then took Lenny's arm and allowed Lenny to lead him into the apartment. The space was small, but clean and uncluttered. They sat across from each other in wing chairs in front of the bricked-up fireplace.

"Thanks for coming, Matty," Lenny said. "I've been so worried . . . ." He buried his face in his hands.

"How can I help?" Matt asked softly.

Lenny raised his head. "I don't know, you're the lawyer. You know what they're saying . . . what they're saying he did?"

Matt nodded. "Yeah, a little – just what Curtis told me and what was in the paper."

"I know Maleek didn't kill that girl. He doesn't have it in him. And his lawyer, the one the court gave him, won't give me the time of day. He won't tell me anything. If you could just find out what's going on . . . ."

"That I can do," Matt agreed. "What's the lawyer's name?"

Lenny pulled out his wallet and shuffled through some papers before finding a business card. He read from it. "Brendan O'Connor, at Legal Aid."

Matt smiled. "Brendan O'Connor?" he asked.

"That's right."

"I know him. He's a good guy and a hell of a lawyer. We had a case together last year, representing co-defendants. Maleek's in good hands."

"You think so?"

"I know so," Matt said flatly.

"But I don't know what's happening, he won't talk to me. . . ."

Matt interrupted, holding up a hand. "May I speak frankly?"

"Sure."

"You're not Brendan's client, Maleek is. His job is to defend Maleek, not hold your hand. And every minute he spends talking to you is a minute he's not working on Maleek's case. You need to let him do his job."

"OK," Lenny said doubtfully.

"But if it will put your mind at ease," Matt continued, "I'll talk to him."

"You'd do that?"

"Yes, of course."

Lenny leaned forward and took both of Matt's hands in his. "Thank you, thank you." After he dropped Matt's hands and leaned back in his chair, he added, "You know, I was surprised when Curtis mentioned you were working out at the gym. I always thought Jack didn't want you to fight."

"He didn't," Matt agreed. "But in my line of work, I can't very well hit the other lawyer, or the judge – or my client." He smiled wryly. "So I hit the heavy bag instead."

"Good thinking," Lenny said as he stood up. "But I've taken up enough of your time."

Matt stood up and followed Lenny out of the apartment. As they walked to the door, Lenny said, "You know, Matty, I always felt sorry for you when you were a boy, losing your sight and your dad like you did. But seeing you now, well, I don't need to feel sorry for you any more."

"No. You don't," Matt said sharply. He unfolded his cane. "Good-bye, Lenny."

As he walked down the stairs, Matt wondered about the tremor he'd noticed when he shook Lenny's hand and held onto his arm. No doubt Lenny was paying the price for his years in the ring. Matt tried not to think about it, but he knew he'd someday pay a price for the punishment he took as Daredevil. Who the hell was he kidding? He was already paying it. He gave a mental shrug. Whatever the price, he'd pay it.

* * *

Matt tapped lightly on the frame of the open office door. "Got a minute?" he asked.

"Matt Murdock!" boomed a deep voice – one that commanded the attention of everyone in the courtroom, especially the jurors. That voice, and the ever-present smell of cigarette smoke, told Matt he was in the right place.

"Hey, Brendan," he replied, stepping into the office and heading for the nearest chair. He stopped short when he realized it, like every other surface in Brendan O'Connor's office, was piled high with stacks of file folders and loose papers.

O'Connor hurried to clear away the papers, muttering, "Sorry about that." Matt put his folded cane on the stack of papers and sat down in the newly-vacant chair. O'Connor dragged his own chair out from behind the desk to sit next to Matt. "So what brings you here?" he asked.

"Maleek Jackson."

O'Connor groaned. "Ouch," he said, "that's a bad one. How'd you get sucked in?"

"I knew him a little, growing up in Hell's Kitchen. And his dad and mine, they used to train together. His dad asked me to look into it."

"OK," O'Connor replied. "And let me guess – he doesn't think his court-appointed defense counsel is up to the job?"

"Something like that," Matt admitted. "But I set him straight, after he mentioned your name."

O'Connor chuckled. "I'm sure you did. But if you could see my office, you'd know he's not entirely out of line. My caseload is ridiculous – so is everyone else's in this place." He frowned and shook his head. "Hell of a way to run a so-called 'justice' system."

"Tell me about it," Matt agreed. "So, about Maleek's case – "

O'Connor reached back and picked up a file from the corner of his desk. He flipped through it before answering. "I'm not gonna lie, Matt, it's not looking good for him. Cops found him kneeling next to the victim in an alley. She was almost dead, bleeding out from multiple stab wounds."

"Multiple stab wounds?"

"It's ugly. She was stabbed repeatedly, in the chest, the neck, and the, uh, genital area. She was mutilated pretty badly, down there."

"Son of a bitch," Matt muttered, sickened. When O'Connor didn't continue, he prompted him. "So, the cops found him – "

"Uh, yeah, they claim they identified themselves and told him to freeze, but he went for a gun, and they shot him. After he went down, they found a Tec-9 in his hand. And they claim he confessed."

"I'm guessing he doesn't have an alibi for the time before he found her."

"No such luck," O'Connor confirmed. "He says he was training at Fogwell's Gym that night, but he was the last to leave – stayed late to get in some extra work. Everyone else left at least a half hour before him. He's covered for some of the time the victim was missing, but there are gaps, so . . . ." He shrugged.

"DNA?" Matt asked.

"Still waiting on the results. But the, uh, damage is so bad, they're not even sure she was raped."

"Jesus," Matt swore under his breath. "Do they have the weapon?"

"No, it wasn't found at the scene," O'Connor replied.

"Any connection between Maleek and the victim?"

"None known. Her name was Candace Conway, 16 years old, a runaway from Macon, Georgia. Other girls on the street told the cops she'd been working in Hell's Kitchen for about six months."

"What about the other prostitutes who were killed?" Matt asked.

"They don't have enough to charge him. Not yet, anyway. But they're not looking at anyone else for them, either."

Matt frowned and ran a hand through his hair. "Damn, this looks bad," he said. "What does Maleek say?"

"He says he was walking home from the gym and heard a sound from the alley. He went to check it out and found her. Someone shined a flashlight in his eyes and yelled at him, then shot him. He didn't have a gun, was pulling out his phone to call for help. Next thing he knew, he woke up in the jail ward at Metro-General. He also says he told the cops he didn't do it, he never confessed."

"He'd say that, of course," Matt observed.

"Yeah," O'Connor agreed, "but there are some things that don't add up. Like I said, the cops allege Maleek waived his _Miranda_ rights and confessed. They turned over what they claim is a transcript of his interrogation. But you know, protocol says all interrogations have to be recorded, and – "

"Let me guess," Matt interrupted, "the recording just happens to be 'lost' or 'accidentally deleted'."

"Bingo. So that set off my bullshit detectors. And there's something else: Maleek says he didn't have a gun, it was planted. Cops say his prints were on it, but there are only a few, not like what you'd expect if it was his gun and he handled it regularly. Most of the surfaces were clean, as if they'd been wiped. And the gun was untraceable."

"What about the cops who arrested him?"

"That's another thing that's fishy. When I asked for records of any disciplinary actions or citizen complaints, the NYPD claimed there weren't any."

Matt gave an incredulous snort. "No complaints? For cops working in Hell's Kitchen? Give me a break."

"You got that right," O'Connor agreed. He looked at Matt thoughtfully, then said, "You knew Maleek. You think he could have done this?"

Matt didn't answer right away. He got up and made his way over to the window and stood there, leaning on the windowsill as if he was looking out. Finally, he turned toward O'Connor and answered him. "I don't know. I only knew him as a kid, and I was a kid, too, so . . . ." He shrugged, holding his hands out. "I don't know who he is now."

"And no one ever knows, in cases like this," O'Connor commented. "There's a monster living next door, and they all say they can't believe it, he's such a nice guy."

Matt pondered what O'Connor had told him. If he was going to learn the truth, he needed to talk to Maleek, in person. "You OK with me talking to Maleek?" he asked.

"Sure, no problem. I'll email you an authorization and get you on his visitors' list."

Matt picked up his cane and unfolded it, then turned to face O'Connor. "Thanks, man. I'll let his dad know." He held out his hand, and O'Connor shook it. "I'll be in touch."

* * *

Matt followed a Correctional Officer to an attorney-client room at Riker's. Jail visits were a necessary part of his job, but he dreaded them. It took all of his skill to manage the sensory onslaught. The sounds washed over him: inmates yelling between cells and squabbling over a card game in the day room, gangbangers issuing challenges, the moans and word salad of the mentally ill who were warehoused there without treatment, the clanking of weights in the weight room, the COs barking orders, the hum of the electricity that powered the place. But the worst part was the smell of too many men caged in too small a space – testosterone, stress sweat, jizz, urine and shit – overlaid by the odors of industrial disinfectant and what passed for food in there. And under them all was a smell Matt identified simply as "fear."

When the CO escorted Maleek into the room, Matt could tell there was something "off" about him. His heart rate and adrenaline were a little high, and he winced and groaned softly when he sat in the chair opposite Matt.

"Uncuff him," Matt ordered.

"You sure?" the CO asked. "You're – "

Matt interrupted him. " – blind. Yeah, I know," he snapped. "Uncuff him."

The CO's heartbeat betrayed his anger as he grabbed Maleek's hands and uncuffed him, more roughly than necessary.

After the CO closed the door, and Matt made sure he wasn't staying outside the room to listen in, Matt turned to Maleek and asked, "You OK, man?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good. I'm healing."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. I mean it's nothin', a coupla guys jumped me, but I handled it."

"Who were they?"

"No one I knew. They weren't from the Kitchen – from somewhere uptown, I think."

Matt considered this briefly, then asked, "Your dad told you I was coming to see you?"

"Yeah," Maleek replied. He studied Matt for a moment, then added, "Damn, Matty, how long's it been? Ten years?"

"Something like that," Matt agreed. "I heard you're married, have a kid."

"Yeah, a daughter, Malia. She's five." He rubbed his hands over his face. "It's killing me, being in here, away from her and her mother."

"So tell me: what happened that night, when you were arrested?" Matt prompted gently.

As Maleek recounted the events leading up to his arrest, Matt focused on him. Maleek's heart rate was steady, and his story was consistent with what he'd told O'Connor. He was telling the truth. He didn't kill Candy. Relieved, Matt said,"I believe you, Maleek."

"Thank God," Maleek said. "I know you told my dad the guy from Legal Aid is a good lawyer – "

"He is. The best."

" – but I need someone who believes in me. Will you be my lawyer, Matty?"

Matt considered this. Knowing Maleek had not killed Candy – something that O'Connor couldn't know for certain – gave him an advantage no other lawyer would have. He wouldn't have to be content to play defense. He could do more than merely try to raise a reasonable doubt by poking holes in the DA's case. Since Maleek was not the killer, he knew there had to be evidence somewhere that would prove it, maybe even expose the killer. All he had to do was find it. He nodded. "I'll talk to my partners. If they agree, I'll be your lawyer, Maleek."

Matt stood up, unfolded his cane, and started toward the door.

"Hang on a sec, Matty," Maleek said. "There's something I gotta say."

Matt turned back toward him.

"I was a real asshole to you, when we were kids – picking on you, stealing your backpack or your lunch money. And I kept doing it after your accident, after you lost your sight. When you couldn't find your cane at school, that was me. I hid it. Then I'd use it to try to trip you up." He shook his head. "I can't believe I was such a dick."

"But you stopped," Matt pointed out.

"Yeah, after my dad found out what I was doing and gave me the worst whupping of my life. But just between you and me, I decided to stop before that. I was tired of getting my butt kicked by a blind kid. How'd you learn to fight, anyway?"

"The nuns brought in an old blind guy to train me."

"You're shittin' me. The nuns got a guy to teach you to fight?"

Matt chuckled and shook his head. "No. They thought he was teaching me 'life skills.' They never knew what he was really teaching me."

Maleek laughed. "What d'you say, when I get out of here, we go a few rounds at the gym, after hours, like?"

"You're on."

"Great. But, fair warning, you better keep your guard up. I'm a southpaw, you know."

* * *

"Our guys got to Jackson," Carlo Morelli reported as he entered the office and sat down across the desk from Rosalie Carbone. "They gave him a pretty good beatdown, but he was able to handle them. He's a professional boxer, after all."

"Damn," Rosalie muttered, shaking her head. "They'll try again?"

"Not those two. They got moved to a different cellblock. I'm working on putting a couple other guys in with Jackson, but it's gonna take some time."

"When you do, make sure they understand what they're supposed to do," Rosalie instructed. "I don't want them beating up on him, I want him gone." She waved her hand. "And it has to look like a suicide so Jackson looks guilty, and the case goes away. That's how we protect Nick."

"You got it, boss."

When Morelli stayed where he was, Rosalie asked, "You got something else?"

"Yeah. One of our COs got word to me that Jackson had an attorney visit, but it wasn't his assigned attorney, O'Connor. It was Matthew Murdock."

"Shit," Rosalie said. "What's Murdock doing, sniffing around this case?"

Morelli shrugged. "Beats me. But Jackson's a boxer, and Murdock's old man was a boxer. Maybe there's a connection there."

"I don't like it. Murdock and his partner – Nelson, the one who ran for DA – went after Wilson Fisk twice. And we both know where Fisk is now."

"Yeah. Attica supermax."

"I want to know why Murdock's interested in Jackson's case. See what you can find out," Rosalie ordered. "You still have eyes on Nick?"

"Always," Morelli assured her.

"Well, make sure you do. If he grabs another girl and kills her while Jackson is in jail, we're fucked."


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter Three_

The morning after his meeting with Maleek, Matt arrived at the office early. The new offices of Nelson & Murdock were located on the first floor of a converted brownstone in the heart of Hell's Kitchen. Matt climbed the steps to the front door and paused to run his hand over the "Nelson & Murdock" sign. It was the original sign from their first office. Somehow it had survived the disastrous end of their first partnership and ended up in a box of client files that was sent to storage. Karen found it when she went looking for the case file of a former client who had returned to the firm. Touching the sign was a daily ritual for Matt. The sign had become a talisman of sorts for him. It reminded him how close he'd come to losing everything, and it strengthened his resolve not to let that happen again. He brushed his hand lightly over the new sign below the "Nelson & Murdock" sign – "Page Investigations" – and went inside.

At mid-morning, after Foggy returned from an early court appearance, Matt, Karen, and Foggy gathered around the conference table (formerly Foggy's mom's dining table) for their daily firm meeting. Foggy drove a hard bargain when he and Matt became partners again. His price was a new incarnation of Nelson & Murdock that was very different from their old firm. They would help people and still make a living. Matt even believed him, most of the time. There would be no more getting paid in fruit and pastries. Clients who could pay, would pay – on a sliding scale based on what they could afford. And the firm would take civil cases on a contingency-fee basis when they could. Foggy even brought some paying clients with him. Jeri Hogarth was not pleased, but there was nothing she could do about it. All of them, including Karen, had to agree before the firm took a new case. As a non-lawyer, Karen could not be an official partner in the firm, but she had an equal voice in all of their decisions. They had agreed to work together, and that was how it was going to be. Above all, Foggy insisted they had to talk to each other. There would be no more secrets.

Matt and Foggy had reached an uneasy truce about Matt's other "job" as Daredevil. Matt had finally come to accept both parts of his life. He'd learned the hard way that he couldn't only be Daredevil, any more than he could only be Matt Murdock. Daredevil needed Matt Murdock, and Matt Murdock needed Daredevil. So far, he'd managed to maintain a precarious balance between them. For his part, Foggy wasn't fully on board with Matt's double life. But he knew he couldn't convince Matt to give it up. Like any good lawyer, he knew how to choose his battles, and this was a fight he couldn't win. As long as Matt pulled his weight in the partnership, Foggy would look the other way when he put on the suit.

The meeting was nearing its end when Matt spoke up. "There's a new case I think we should take – Maleek Jackson." He summarized what he had learned from Brendan O'Connor, emphasizing the inconsistencies that set off O'Connor's bullshit detectors – and his own.

Foggy and Karen looked at each other. "You gotta be kidding me, Matt," Foggy said.

Matt shook his head. "No. I went to see Maleek in jail, Foggy. He's innocent. He didn't kill that girl."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Matt said flatly.

"Because I really, really don't want us representing a serial killer."

"We won't be," Matt assured him. "You know I'd know if he was lying. He wasn't. And there are too many things that don't add up. He was set up. You don't want an innocent man to go down for murder, do you?"

Foggy leaned back in his chair, his arms folded. He glanced over at Karen, who shrugged, then nodded. "OK," he said. "Karen?"

"OK by me," she replied.

"Thanks, guys," Matt said. "Thanks for trusting me."

* * *

Later that afternoon, Karen and Matt were in Matt's office, reviewing the files on Maleek's case that he had picked up at Brendan O'Connor's office. After an hour and a half, Matt stopped his screen reader and rubbed his temple. Something he'd read in one of the reports was bothering him, but he couldn't pinpoint what it was. Then it came to him: according to the arresting officer's report, the gun was in Maleek's right hand, but Maleek had told him he was a southpaw. So the cop lied. The gun _was_ planted. Not exactly a surprise. He shrugged and went back to the autopsy report. It was grim reading. He didn't envy Foggy and Karen, who would have to review the autopsy photos. The descriptions of Candy's injuries were bad enough. A few minutes later, Foggy wandered in and flopped down onto a chair. "I think I'm finally losing my mind," he declared. "Have I ever told you how much I hate summary judgment motions?"

"Once or twice, maybe," Matt replied with a half smile. He paused the screen reader and leaned back. "Karen and I were talking about Maleek's case earlier. She talked to some of the women who knew Candy, for her article. We should show them that photo of Maleek we got from Lenny, see if they recognize him." He ran his hands across the papers on his desk, as if looking for the photo.

Karen found it and handed it to him. "Here it is."

"I'm thinking you should be the one to talk to them," Matt told Karen. "They already know you."

"Actually, Matt, I think you should," Karen replied. "They won't see you as a threat, and – "

"Ouch. You really know how to hurt a guy, don't you?" Matt protested in mock outrage. "Besides, I have it on good authority that Daredevil is a very scary looking dude."

"Give me a break," Karen griped. "But, seriously, Daredevil isn't going to talk to them, Matt Murdock is. Those girls will eat you up."

Foggy groaned. "Eww."

"I didn't mean _that,_ " Karen laughed. "But I had a hell of a time getting any information out of them. They're more likely to talk to Matt."

"OK, I'll do it," Matt agreed. "I only hope I'm not too tasty."

"Noooo!" Foggy threw up his hands and fled.

* * *

Matt waited until after midnight to look for the women who worked the streets where Candy had worked. He had changed out of his business suit into jeans and a hoodie. As he walked to the door, he put on his dark glasses and grabbed the coat and baseball cap he'd scrounged from the donation box at the Clinton Church. They were reminders of a time in his life he'd rather forget, and he told himself, not for the first time, that he should get rid of them. But they came in handy at times like this. Before heading out, he put the photo of Maleek in one pocket and several folded bills in another, and picked up his cane from its place next to the door.

Swinging and tapping his cane in front of him, he walked west along 47th Street between 10th and 11th Avenues, one of the blocks where Candace had worked, according to Karen. He focused on the sounds that would tell him where the prostitutes of Hell's Kitchen were working that night. The block was empty, but when he turned the corner onto 11th Avenue, he spotted three women who were working there. Their heart rates ticked up when they saw him: a potential client. He approached the nearest woman – she was young, just a girl, really. Despite her heavy floral perfume, he could tell she had already entertained at least one client tonight.

"Hey, mister," she said, in an accent that pegged her as a Hell's Kitchen native. "Wanna have some fun? They say I give the best head in the Kitchen."

He shook his head. "Nope. Just looking to talk." He took one of the folded bills out of his pocket and held it up. "Want to make an easy 50 bucks?"

"Sure," she said. She attempted to snatch the bill from Matt's hand, but he caught her arm before she could grab it. "How'd you do that, man? Are you really blind?"

Matt ignored the questions. "You got a name?"

"You can call me Jewel."

By that time, the two other girls working the block – "Lolita" and "Cherry" – had joined them. Matt repeated his offer of an easy $50 and asked, "Did you know Candace, uh, Candy Apple, the girl who was killed a couple weeks ago?"

They all nodded. "Yeah, she used to work around here and over on 47th and 48th sometimes," Jewel said.

"Why you asking?" Cherry asked. "You some kinda cop or something?"

Before Matt could answer, Lolita spoke up. "You trippin', girl," she scoffed. "Dude's blind. A blind dude can't be no cop."

Matt confirmed it. "No. I'm not a cop." He took the photo of Maleek out of his pocket and held it up. "Did you ever see this guy with Candy?" he asked.

"What guy?" Lolita asked. "You're holding it backward." She took the photo from Matt and turned it over. She walked a few steps away, closer to the street light, to look at it. After a few seconds, she shrugged and said, "Never saw him before." She passed the photo to Jewel, who looked at it, shook her head, and handed it to Cherry. "Nope," she said, putting the photo in Matt's hand. He fumbled with it a little before putting it back in his pocket. He gave a mental sigh of relief. All three girls' heartbeats stayed steady when they looked at the photo. They were telling the truth about not seeing Maleek with Candy.

"Thanks for your time, ladies," he said, handing each of them a bill.

"You sure we can't do anything else for you?" Jewel asked.

"Not tonight," he said as he turned and walked away. He was halfway down the block when Jewel called out to him. He stopped and waited for her to catch up.

When she was standing next to him, she said, "I didn't want to say this in front of the other girls, but I don't think Candy would have gone with that guy in the photo."

"Why not?"

"Candy wasn't from around here. She was from somewhere down South, she ran away after her stepfather molested her. I don't like to say nothing bad about Candy, with her being dead an' all, but she was kind of a racist. She never wanted to go with the black guys. We all told her their money was the same color as the white guys', but she didn't care. So, like I said, I don't think Candy would've gone with him."

"Thanks, that's helpful," Matt said. He handed her another bill and walked away. His encounter with the three prostitutes left him feeling profoundly sad. God, they were so young! Still in their teens, he thought. He knew how Candy had ended up on the streets of Hell's Kitchen, and he suspected the other girls' stories were much the same. Tucked into each folded bill was the business card of a shelter for runaway teens. He had no illusions: there was little chance they would be able to free themselves from "the life." But at least he could let them know there was a safe place for them, if they wanted to try. And maybe he could keep them safe from a killer.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter Four_

 **PROFILER: HELL'S KITCHEN KILLER IS A "LONER" AND A "COWARD"**

Exclusive to the _Bulletin_

By Karen Page

A killer, known to the police as "HK2," is on the streets of Hell's Kitchen, terrorizing and killing the women who work its streets. Gilbert Robinson, J.D., Ph.D., a retired profiler for the NYPD and a professor at The College of Criminal Justice, recently shared his insights into what makes this killer tick, in an interview with the _Bulletin._

 _Bulletin:_ You've had extensive experience dealing with serial killers in your career. Do you think we're seeing one now, in Hell's Kitchen?

 _Robinson:_ That would seem to be the case. It's difficult to say definitively, because the detectives investigating the case have not released many details. Quite properly. But there do appear to be similarities which would suggest a single perpetrator, most notably, the victims all worked as prostitutes, and they all worked in the same part of the city. There are also other similarities, which I'm not at liberty to divulge.

 _Bulletin:_ Would this killer be considered a psychopath or a sociopath?

 _Robinson:_ I prefer "antisocial personality disorder," but, yes, in common parlance, he would likely be considered a psychopath or a sociopath. There are some subtle differences, but two terms are essentially interchangeable.

 _Bulletin:_ What characteristics would you be looking for in this killer?

 _Robinson:_ He – it's almost certainly a man – is probably a white man between the ages of 25 and 35, possibly as old as 40. He may be superficially charming and intelligent – think Ted Bundy – but it's all an act. He has no real interest in other people, except as objects to be manipulated to serve his own purposes. He wholly lacks empathy. His conscience, if he has one, is weak, and he's basically incapable of remorse. Aside from superficial relationships with others, he's a loner.

 _Bulletin:_ Why do these killers so often target women?

 _Robinson:_ In many cases, we find the killer is incapable of having a normal relationship with a woman. He fantasizes about women and projects his fantasies onto his victims. Paradoxically, he also hates women; on some level, he feels rage against women generally. When we interview these killers after they are apprehended, we often discover they have what a lay person might call "mommy issues."

 _Bulletin:_ When you say the killer is incapable of a relationship with a woman, do you mean he's impotent?

 _Robinson:_ Erectile dysfunction may be a factor, but I was referring to the inability to have a normal and healthy relationship with a woman in all respects, not only sexual.

 _Bulletin:_ Is it significant that the victims of the Hell's Kitchen killer have all been prostitutes?

 _Robinson:_ Unfortunately, the nature of their work makes them easy targets for someone like him. I'd say he is a coward, preying on some of the most vulnerable women in our society.

 _Bulletin:_ What advice would you give to the law enforcement officers trying to catch this criminal?

 _Robinson:_ They are often difficult to apprehend, because they're highly skilled at hiding their true nature. As I said, they can be quite intelligent, especially in the planning of their killings. The planning feeds their fantasies. Often, the killings become more frequent, as the release they get from killing lasts a shorter time. With smaller intervals between the killings, they plan less carefully and make mistakes, which may lead to their apprehension.

 _Bulletin:_ As you know, the police have a suspect in custody for one of the killings. Does he fit the profile?

 _Robinson:_ Based on what I know, his profile is not consistent with the killer's. For one thing, he appears to be in a stable marriage and has a child. But it's not unheard-of for a serial killer to have a secret life.

 _Bulletin:_ Thank you for your insights, Dr. Robinson.

 _Robinson:_ You're welcome.

 _Karen Page is an investigator with the Hell's Kitchen-based law firm of Nelson & Murdock and an occasional contributor to the _Bulletin.

* * *

Nick Carbone slammed his phone on the table in disgust, nearly knocking over his cup of coffee. Several other customers in the coffee shop looked at him, startled. He responded with an apologetic shrug, holding out his hands, palms up. They couldn't be allowed to see his rage. "Loner"? "Coward"? "Incapable"? "Mommy issues"? He fumed as he heard the words in his head. Picking up his phone, he returned to the _Bulletin_ 's web site and tapped on the name of the reporter, Karen Page. Her bio appeared under "Contributors," along with a photo. Not bad looking. A looker, actually. But if that article was any indication, a real ball-busting bitch. Someone needed to take her down a notch, teach her to know her place. He could to do it, easy. He was getting bored with hookers, anyway. He needed to up his game. And it wouldn't hurt to change his pattern and throw the cops off.

A Google search yielded the address of the law firm where she worked, along with photos and bios of the two lawyers. Late that afternoon, Nick was slouching in the driver's seat of his SUV, parked across the street and several doors down from the brownstone that housed the offices of Nelson & Murdock. He had to wait more than an hour, but Karen finally emerged from the building, along with one of the lawyers – the blind one, Murdock. Maybe walking him home was part of the job, Nick surmised. Funny, though, it didn't look like she was leading him. They were walking side by side, holding hands. He was holding his blind man's cane, but it was folded up. They were smiling and talking to each other. Puzzled, Nick pulled out of his parking space and blended into the heavy traffic. He followed them, careful to keep a couple of vehicles between them. Not that he was worried about the blind guy spotting him. And Karen seemed to be looking only at the lawyer. What was up with that?

Five blocks from their office, Karen and the lawyer crossed the street and went into a Thai restaurant on the corner. Nick continued on his way, then spotted a car pulling out of a parking space down the block. He swooped in and claimed it, cutting off another driver who was heading for the space. He ignored the guy's blaring horn and upraised middle finger. A few minutes later, Karen and the lawyer emerged from the restaurant, each carrying a plastic bag. Halfway down the block, they went into a converted warehouse. A few minutes later, the lights went on in a top-floor apartment. Nick dashed across the street and checked the names and apartment numbers listed next to the buzzers at the entry door: "6A – Murdock." So it was the lawyer's apartment. Back in the SUV, Nick drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, expecting Karen to come out of the building any minute. But she didn't appear. Maybe she was staying for dinner, keeping him company.

An hour passed. Still no Karen. Nick's stomach was growling, and he desperately needed to take a leak. He got out of his SUV and went into a pizza place a few doors down from his parking space, where he could keep an eye on the building entrance. He chanced a quick run to the men's room, then ordered a slice and sat by the window. The lights were still on in the top floor apartment he'd pegged as the lawyer's. That must mean Karen was still there. The blind guy sure didn't need them.

Nick finished his slice, then crumpled the paper plate it had been served on and tossed it toward the trash can. It missed, but he didn't pick it up. He left the pizza place and stood in the shadow of the building next door. The colored lights of the billboard above him didn't reach where he was standing. Another hour dragged past. Nick went back to his SUV and climbed in. He grew more frustrated as the hours passed. The lights on the top floor eventually went out, but Karen still didn't leave. He finally had to acknowledge the awful truth: Karen was sleeping with the blind dude. What the fuck? Nick doubted the guy could get it up, and even if he could, he wouldn't be able to find where to put it. If Karen was fucking the guy, it must be a pity fuck. Shit. Nick was all for helping the handicapped, but this was ridiculous.

* * *

It was after midnight, but Karen couldn't sleep. She usually slept better, the nights she spent with Matt. It was knowing he was with her, safe. Her gaze went involuntarily to the scars – old and not so old – that were scattered across his torso. She stroked his hair, but he didn't stir. She shivered when she touched him, remembering their lovemaking. Sex with Matt was unlike anything she'd experienced with any other man. Of course it was. He wasn't like other men. His senses allowed him to know her in ways no other man could. When she first learned about his abilities, it was . . . disturbing. Not anymore. She smiled to herself. It wasn't only physical. There was a greater intimacy, a deeper emotional connection. Matt felt it, too. She could tell. She didn't need heightened senses for that. But it wasn't always a two-way street with him.

After months of an intimacy she once thought impossible, there were subjects that were still off limits. One of them was the woman she'd seen in his bed on that awful day during Frank's trial. Karen now knew her name: Elektra. Foggy had told her what he knew, but if she tried to talk to Matt about her, he went . . . somewhere else. And he refused to talk about the aftermath of Midland Circle, or explain fully why he let her and Foggy believe he was dead. He would only say it was a rough couple of months, and she and Foggy helped him to heal. But something vital had been missing in the man who showed up at her apartment to ask for her help against Fisk. He had told Foggy "Matt Murdock" wasn't coming back, and he almost didn't. Even after he survived the collapse of Midland Circle, they had come very close to losing Matt forever. Then there was his mother, Sister Maggie. Matt said he had forgiven her, it was Father Lantom's dying request. He even went to see her occasionally. But it broke Karen's heart to think of Matt arriving at that orphanage, believing he was alone in the world, when his mother – _his mother_ – was there the whole time.

Foggy was right: everyone in Matt's life had abandoned him. And it was Foggy's determination not to turn his back on Matt that brought them together for their desperate fight against Fisk, and finally brought Matt back to them. "I won't abandon you, Mr. Murdock. You're stuck with me," she murmured. He rolled over and smiled sleepily. She kissed him lightly on the forehead. "Go back to sleep," she told him. She lay down beside him and finally slept.


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter Five_

Still parked across the street from Matt's building, Nick checked his phone: 1:30 a.m. Karen wasn't going anywhere tonight. The frustration that had been growing through the long hours of watching and waiting finally boiled over. Breathing heavily, he slammed a fist against the steering wheel. He opened the glove compartment and pulled out his treasure box – a small wooden box containing mementoes of "his" girls. He fondled a large apple-red plastic hoop earring that had belonged to Candy. He unzipped his fly, intending to jack off. Then he changed his mind and zipped up. He had a better idea. He started the engine and drove away.

He spotted her standing alone near the corner of 48th and 11th: petite, skinny, her delicate features obscured with too-heavy makeup, her long dark brown hair streaked with purple and pink. Dressed in a mini skirt, midriff-baring top, and knee-high boots with stiletto heels, she shivered in the chilly nighttime air. He pulled to the curb and lowered the passenger side window. She came over to the SUV. "Hey, mister, I'm Jewel. They say I give the best head in the Kitchen. Wanna have some fun?"

He nodded, and she got in the car. They negotiated the price for a blow job, but Nick wasn't thinking about the price. He wasn't going to pay her, anyway. He drove downtown on 11th Avenue, heading for a vacant building owned by his mother, near 36th and 10th. He pulled into an alley next to the building and parked. He unzipped his fly and gestured to Jewel, who lowered her head toward his crotch. When her work was done, Nick took a syringe out of the center console and jabbed it into her neck. She looked up at him, her eyes becoming unfocused. Then she closed her eyes with a sigh and fell across his lap.

When he was sure Jewel was unconscious, Nick carried her into the building. He descended the stairs to the basement, where he secured her to a chair with duct tape. He left her there. She wasn't going anywhere. It would be a while before the Special K wore off. After she woke up, it would take time for her fears to take over. He wanted her terrorized, and compliant, when he returned. He went back to his SUV and drove away.

* * *

Half-awake, Carlo Morelli swatted ineffectually at the insect that seemed to be buzzing around his head. Gradually he became aware of the source of the buzzing: his phone. He grabbed it from the nightstand and answered the call. "Yes," he barked.

"Sorry, boss." It was Pete Silva, the man assigned to watch Nick overnight. "Nick snatched a hooker off the street."

"Shit," Morelli swore. "Where'd he take her?"

"A vacant building on 36th, near 10th, south side of the street, three doors east of 10th."

"Got it," Morelli said. "Is Nick still there?"

"No, he took off. I think he's waiting for whatever he gave her to wear off. And – " Silva hesitated.

"Yeah, what?" Morelli demanded.

"I, uh, . . . I lost him."

" _You lost him?_ "

"Sorry," Silva replied helplessly.

"Well, _find him!_ " Morelli bellowed, and ended the call.

A half hour later, Morelli arrived at the vacant building, one of several in Hell's Kitchen owned by Rosalie Carbone. He finally found the hooker in the basement, duct taped to a chair. She screamed when she saw the light from his flashlight.

"It's OK, honey," Morelli told her in his most soothing tone. "I'm going to get you out of here. There's nothing to be afraid of."

She sniffled and whimpered as he approached her and pulled out a knife to cut the tape. When she was free, he helped her to her feet, and she began to sob. "C'mon, let's get you out of here."

Morelli put his arm around the girl's thin shoulders and hurried her out of the building and into his SUV, parked in the alley next to the building. As he drove away, she asked, "Where're you taking me, mister?"

"Across the river, to Jersey," he replied. "You can't stay in the city, it's not safe. I'll drop you at the train station in Newark. You can go anywhere you want from there."

"Thanks, mister." She paused for a moment, then added, "You want a blow job? They say I give the best head in Hell's Kitchen."

Morelli didn't respond. As they drove through the Lincoln Tunnel, he glanced over at his passenger. In the lights of the tunnel, he could see she was young, probably no more than 16 or 17. Dress her in jeans and a t-shirt and give her a backpack, and she could be a student at any high school in the city, instead of hustling on the streets of Hell's Kitchen. He shook his head sadly and drove on in silence.

When they reached Newark, Morelli drove into an alley near the train station and parked. He pulled out his wallet and took out $500 in cash. He handed it to the girl. "This should get you anywhere you want to go."

Her eyes widened at the sight of the cash. While she was preoccupied with counting it, Morelli took a cord from his pocket. Before she could react, he looped it around her neck and tightened it. She struggled, clawing at the cord in a futile effort to free herself. It was over quickly. Deprived of oxygen, she soon stopped struggling and went limp. Even then, Morelli did not release the cord until he was sure she was no longer breathing. Then he checked for a pulse: she was gone.

Before leaving the alley, Morelli wrapped the girl's body in a tarp and put it in the covered cargo area of the SUV. He picked up the cash she had dropped while fighting for her life and put it back in his wallet. Then he drove to a wooded area about a hour west of Newark, where he dug a grave and placed her in it. After he shoveled the dirt back into the grave, he scattered leaves and branches over it as camouflage. Before he walked away, he made the sign of the cross and whispered, "Sorry, honey." But it had to be done. If he had let her live, she would be a threat to Nick, and to their plan to protect him.

* * *

In the pre-dawn hours, Nick returned to the vacant building on 36th. When he discovered Jewel was gone, he let out a howl of rage. He picked up the empty chair and slammed it against the wall, then paced back and forth, swearing under his breath. When he finally regained control of himself, he went back to his SUV, still wondering how the little bitch had freed herself. He shrugged. Time to check on Karen. He went into a coffee shop that was open early, down the street from the lawyer's building. He sat next to the window, sipping coffee and keeping watch. He didn't have to wait long for Karen and the lawyer to come out of the building. They kissed, then went in opposite directions. Nick threw some bills down on the table and followed Karen, keeping to the other side of the street. Six blocks later, she went into an apartment building. Nick smiled. He had a plan.

* * *

Carlo Morelli returned to his apartment and fell into an exhausted sleep. Hours later, his phone woke him – again.

"What the hell's going on, Carlo?" Rosalie Carbone demanded. He reported on the night's events, leaving until the end the fact that they had lost Nick.

"God damn it! How could you let that happen?"

"I had Silva on him, boss – he's my best man. But Nick's smart, he must've spotted him."

"Silva's the best you got?" Rosalie scoffed. "Puh-leeze."

"I know he has his limitations," Morelli conceded, "but there's no better watcher than Silva. I'm sure he's picked up Nick again."

"You better hope he has." Carbone ended the call.

Morelli immediately called Silva. Nothing. No answer. No voicemail. He sent a text. No reply. "Fuck," he muttered, throwing the phone down on the nightstand. He picked it up and made a couple of calls. No one had heard from Silva since last night. No one had seen Nick, either. He made some more calls, barking instructions at the men who answered. They had to find Nick – and soon.

* * *

That evening, Karen and Matt had dinner at a Greek restaurant near Karen's apartment. Matt walked her home after dinner. When they reached the front door of her building, she asked, "Coming up?"

Matt shook his head. "Not tonight," he said. "I still have to finish preparing for the _Estrada_ hearing first thing tomorrow morning." He took her hand and pulled her close. His goodnight kiss was filled with longing. He finally broke away and unfolded his cane.

"Sure you won't change your mind?" Karen teased him.

He responded in kind. "No, I'm not sure," he said with a smile. He started to walk away. "Goodnight, Karen."

She watched him until he disappeared from view, down the stairs of the subway station at the end of her block. She wondered if "preparing for the _Estrada_ hearing" meant actual legal work, or his other work as Daredevil, keeping the Kitchen safe. She still remembered her shock when Matt revealed he was Daredevil, and she realized he wasn't the man she thought she knew. He wasn't only the smart, funny, and often infuriating blind lawyer she found so attractive. He was also another person entirely, someone with extraordinary abilities – abilities which, even now, she struggled to wrap her mind around. And he had saved her life, more than once. Since that time, she had slowly come to understand Daredevil was not merely a suit Matt wore. Being Daredevil was an essential part of who he was. He would not be the Matt she knew if he wasn't also Daredevil. She murmured, "Goodnight, Matt. Stay safe."

She took the elevator to her fifth-floor apartment and let herself in. Bypassing the living room, she went directly to the kitchen. She turned on the overhead light and put her handbag down on the kitchen table. After grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, she started toward the living room, looking forward to kicking off her shoes. Suddenly, she felt an odd prickling sensation on the back of her neck. When she turned on the light in the living room, she gasped. A man wearing a ski mask was standing in the far corner. She threw the water bottle at him. Then she turned, knocking over a chair, and ran back toward the kitchen – and the gun in her handbag. But the intruder was too quick. He caught her and grabbed her from behind. She screamed and struggled to break his grip, elbowing him in the rib cage and kicking his knee. Then she felt a pinprick on the side of her neck. Her vision blurred, and her legs felt rubbery. Her attacker let her slide slowly to the floor. "Oh, shit," she thought, then – nothing.


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter Six_

After he said goodnight to Karen, Matt went back to the office and prepared for the _Estrada_ hearing, just as he said he was going to do. But his night's work wasn't finished.

An hour later, Daredevil was lurking in the back room of Turk Barrett's shop, breathing in the pervasive smell of gun oil.

"Oh, man," Turk moaned, as the red-suited figure emerged from the back room. "Why you got to follow me all the way uptown? I'm a legitimate business owner. You got no call to hassle me."

"Good to see you again, too," Daredevil replied. "You wanna tell me about the business you're running out of the back room?" He jerked his head in that direction.

"C'mon, man," Turk whined, "a brother gotta make a living." A quick punch to the left side of his jaw told him that wasn't the correct answer to the question. He staggered back a few steps, rubbing his jaw, and crashed into a shelf. He managed to stay on his feet, but some of the paraphernalia on the shelf fell to the floor and shattered.

"Try again," Daredevil told him in a low voice. "Sell any Tec-9s recently?"

"You know I can't tell you that, man. My business is con-fi-den-tial."

"Wrong answer."

A flurry of punches landed on Turk's midsection. He doubled over and went down. "Please," Turk begged. "She'll kill me."

Daredevil ignored his plea. "You really want to do this the hard way?" He raised his fist.

"OK, OK," Turk said. "Tec-9s, you said?"

"Yeah."

"Sold a few of those . . . ."

" _Who were the buyers?"_

"Only one – Rosalie Carbone." Turk managed to sit up, slumped against the front of a display case. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, Daredevil was gone.

* * *

It was almost noon when Matt finally left the courtroom after the _Estrada_ hearing. He hated it when his case was the last one on the calendar. At least the judge had ruled in favor of his client, even if His Honor didn't seem to understand the facts or the law. He shrugged. He'd take it. As soon as he reached the corridor, he pulled out his phone to call Karen. Straight to voicemail. He frowned and ended the call, then called Foggy.

"Franklin Nelson."

"Hey, Foggy, it's me. You at the office?"

"Yes."

"Is Karen there?"

"No."

"She's not answering her phone."

"Let me check." Matt heard the click of the keys as Foggy pulled up the firm calendar on his computer. "She's supposed to be interviewing a witness in the _McNeal_ case. She should be back soon." The phone on Karen's desk rang. "Hang on a minute, buddy, I gotta get that."

"Nelson & Murdock . . . She's not here at the moment . . . She's not? . . . I don't know . . . I'm sorry for the inconvenience . . . ." The receiver clattered back into its cradle.

Foggy picked up his cell phone. "You hear that?"

"Your end."

"She didn't show for her interview. Mrs. Halloran is pissed."

A knot began to form in Matt's stomach. "I don't care about Mrs. Halloran. _Where is Karen?_ "

"No clue. But she wouldn't not show up for an appointment like that."

"No, she wouldn't. Meet me at her place."

Matt ended the call and left the courthouse at a near run. To hell with his cover. As soon as possible, he took to the rooftops, sprinting across them and leaping recklessly from building to building. He didn't care about the risk. He had to get to Karen's, and this way was faster than a cab in the traffic-choked streets. He finally reached Karen's building and swung down the fire escape. He entered her apartment through a window. Foggy was already waiting outside the door. Matt took a moment to catch his breath, then let him in. "She's not here," he said.

Foggy spotted the overturned chair and the water bottle. "Oh, no. This looks bad."

Matt nodded. He'd noticed them, too. He tapped the floor with his foot. "There should be an area rug here."

"I don't see it anywhere," Foggy told him. "But her purse is on the kitchen table."

Matt went to the kitchen and reached into the purse, feeling its contents. "Her phone is here. Her gun, too." He pulled the phone out and handed it to Foggy.

After a moment, Foggy reported, "No outgoing calls or texts this morning. Only incoming calls this morning were you and Mrs. Halloran. No incoming or outgoing calls last night after 8 o'clock. You weren't with her last night?"

"No." The knot in Matt's stomach grew tighter. He sat down on the couch and buried his face in his hands. "Oh, God, oh, God, _Karen_."

Foggy pulled out his phone and started to dial. Matt heard and raised his head. "Who're you calling?"

"Brett Mahoney."

Matt reached out and put a hand on Foggy's forearm. "Not yet."

"What?"

"We need to search the place first and find what she was working on. We don't want the cops getting their hands on anything privileged, or anything that could help us find her."

Foggy nodded. "Good point. I'll check her desk." Matt ran his hands over the items on the coffee table. "There's nothing there," Foggy told him. "And we should be careful – about fingerprints, you know."

Matt smiled grimly. "As far as the cops are concerned, I'm Karen's blind boyfriend. They'll expect my fingerprints to be everywhere. A few more won't make any difference."

"Yeah, I guess so," Foggy admitted. "But if someone broke in, he could've left fingerprints. We don't want to mess those up."

"You're right," Matt conceded. He went into the kitchen and rummaged around under the sink. He returned with a package of rubber gloves. "I'll check the bedroom." He pulled on a pair of gloves and handed the package to Foggy.

A few minutes later, Matt emerged from the bedroom with Karen's laptop. "You find anything?" he asked as he set the computer down on the coffee table.

Foggy held up a few file folders. "Just these. They're things we already know about, notes from witness interviews, police reports, stuff like that." He stuffed them into his briefcase, along with the laptop.

Matt held up a hand. "Wait a minute before you call Mahoney." He went back to the kitchen, reached into Karen's purse, and pulled out a small spiral notebook. "Her reporter's notebook." He handed it to Foggy.

Foggy opened it and began to read. He flipped through several pages, then stopped. "Son of a bitch."

"What is it?"

"Her notes from the interview with that profiler, you know, the one who profiled the guy who's been killing the prostitutes."

"And – ?"

"She's highlighted some of the words he used to describe the killer – like "psychopath," "loner," "incapable," "mommy issues," "coward."

"They're in the article, too. I read it."

"Shit," Foggy said, "it's like she was trying to provoke him."

"Yep," Matt said grimly. "That's exactly what she was doing."

"Jesus," Foggy breathed. "You think so?"

"This is Karen we're talking about, Fog."

"Yeah. Right."

Matt picked up a book from the coffee table and slammed it to the floor. "Goddamnit, Karen, _goddamnit_."

Foggy dialed Brett's number. Matt didn't stop him.


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter Seven_

Karen's nose itched like crazy. She tried to scratch it with her right hand but couldn't raise her arm. She tried her left hand. Same result. What the hell? Slowly, she became aware of a stabbing headache and a dull ache in her shoulders. Everything was . . . fuzzy. She shook her head to clear it. Bad idea. She opened her eyes. Nothing. Oh, god, was she blind? She looked around frantically, trying to see something, anything. After several long, agonizing minutes, she detected a few glimmers of light, high above her. As the mental fog slowly cleared, she took stock of her situation. She was sitting on a metal chair, her hands and legs bound. Her hands were behind her but didn't seem to be attached to the chair itself. Her legs were taped to the legs of the chair. She took a deep breath. Apparently her plan had worked – just not the way she'd intended.

Wishing she had Matt's hearing, Karen closed her eyes and listened intently for any clues about her location. Nothing but some faint street sounds. She could be anywhere. She'd read the reports on the prostitute killings. The killer didn't use the same place twice. Before she was abducted, she was following a couple of leads that might reveal where she was. Surely Foggy and Matt would figure out what she was doing. She could only hope she was on the right track, and they would figure things out in time. She didn't know how long she'd been out, or how much time she had left, but the prostitutes had been missing for at least a couple of days before their bodies were found. Karen figured the killer would enjoy taking his time with her, and having his "fun" – whatever his twisted idea of "fun" was – before killing her. And he would want to give her time to imagine what was going to happen to her, so she would be fully terrorized before he even started. He'd already accomplished that, she thought. She _was_ terrified. But she'd be damned if she was going to let her fear rule her. No, worse than that, she'd be dead if she let her fear take over.

In the meantime, she wasn't going to wait around to be rescued. The first priority was to free herself from her bindings. She looked around her prison – a basement, apparently. It seemed less gloomy than when she first woke up. Either it was daytime or her eyes had fully adjusted. She spotted something that looked like a mattress next to one wall. She quickly looked away, not wanting to think about what she might have to do to survive. Along the opposite wall was something that looked like a workbench, with stuff on top of it – she couldn't see what. Maybe there was something there she could use to free herself – and defend herself. She tried "walking" and scooting the chair in that direction. It was slow going, but she was making progress until she twisted too vigorously and overbalanced. She and the chair toppled over, onto her side. She struggled to right herself, but it was no use. Her arm slowly went numb underneath her. She lay there, suppressing the urge to scream in frustration.

Sometime later, a door opened behind her. "Hello, Karen," a voice said. "Going somewhere?" Her captor walked across the room and set her and the chair upright. Karen noticed he wasn't wearing the ski mask – confirmation that he wasn't going to let her leave this place alive. But she already knew that. Trying not to be obvious about it, she committed his appearance to memory: dark brown hair, almost black, cut short except on top; dark eyes set a little too close together, below heavy eyebrows; aquiline nose; cleft chin; her height or taller; muscular build; no visible tattoos; not bad looking, if you liked the psycho asshole type. When Karen didn't respond to his question, he raised his voice. "I asked you a question, bitch!"

"Fuck you," Karen muttered.

"What did you say?"

"Fuck you," Karen repeated, more loudly. He struck her on the cheek with the back of his hand, snapping her head back. His heavy ring opened up a gash, which bled profusely. The pain took her breath away, and everything went dark.

When she came to, her captor was still there. He stood with his arms folded, a self-satisfied smile on his face. "What d'you see in the blind guy anyway? He sure as hell can't see anything in you." He chuckled at his own wit.

Karen set her jaw and said nothing. Her cheek felt tight where her blood had dried. She knew what his game was: to intimidate her into submission. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. She'd rather die first.

"He any good in the sack?" her captor demanded.

"You have no idea," she thought, trying not to smile.

"Nothin' to say for yourself, huh? Maybe you'd like to find out what it's like to be with a real man."

"Go to hell," Karen snapped. "I know what a real man looks like, and I don't see one here."

"Haven't learned yet, have you?" His punch caught the left side of her jaw, leaving her woozy.

She heard the door close behind her, and when she looked up, her captor was gone. Her resistance had bought her some time, but she had to get back to work on freeing herself. When she and the chair fell over, she'd felt a sharp edge against her arm. If she could reach it, she might be able to cut the tape. She moved her bound arms to the left, where she'd felt it. There. She began moving the tape back and forth across the sharp edge. Her arms and shoulders ached from the unnatural position, but she persisted. When she felt the beginning of a cut in the tape, she tried pulling her arms apart, hoping the tape would tear the rest of the way. Not yet. She went back to the tedious work of extending the cut. Two attempts later, the tape finally parted. She leaned down and pulled the tape from her legs, and she was free.

She sprinted to the door, but it was locked. The windows were high up and out of reach. She remembered the workbench and ran to it. Surely there would be something there she could use to open the door or, failing that, as a weapon. She frantically rummaged through the items on the workbench, sending several of them clattering to the floor. She found a battered chisel and a screwdriver and went to work on the door. No luck. She heard footsteps approaching and flattened herself against the wall.

* * *

Foggy and Matt finally got back to the office. Mahoney had peppered them with questions for what seemed like hours. They didn't have answers for most of them. They made their escape only after promising to go to the precinct and give formal statements later. By the time they arrived at the office, Matt had reached his limit. He slammed a fist on the reception desk and exploded. "God, I am such an idiot!" He started pacing back and forth. "I couldn't go up with her, no, I had to work on the damn _Estrada_ hearing. It's not like the judge understood a word I was saying anyway . . . ."

"Matt, _Matt_ – " Foggy spoke across his rant.

"No, Fog, we're both idiots. We should've seen what she was doing. I read the damn article." Matt stopped his pacing and pointed at Foggy. "So did you." He resumed his pacing. "God, I should've been there. This wouldn't have happened if I was with her . . . ."

" _Matt. Stop,"_ Foggy ordered. "This isn't helping. You need to stop beating yourself up over this and get off the 'I'm-an-idiot' train. And, yes, we're both idiots for not seeing what Karen was doing. But what she did is on her."

Matt stopped and turned to face Foggy. "The hell it is. This is _not_ her fault."

"It's not about blame. All I'm saying is, it was _her_ decision. Not yours. Not mine. She must've thought she had a plan."

"Getting herself kidnapped by a serial killer is a plan?" Matt shook his head. "Jesus."

"OK, that probably wasn't the plan. But you know Karen, she can handle herself."

"Maybe. But this guy's smart, and he's a killer." Matt started pacing again. "I should've been there."

"Damn it,Matt, it's not about you," Foggy insisted, sounding exasperated. "Just stop and _think_ for a damn minute _._ She clearly thought she was on to something. We have to retrace her steps and pick up where she left off. We may not have much time. We need to get to work _now."_ He took Karen's laptop and the papers he found in her apartment out of his briefcase. He flipped through the papers. "Whoa," he said.

"What is it?"

"The reports on the other murders. I think she was looking for patterns, something that might ID the killer. Her notes are here, too."

Matt held out his hand. "I'll take those. You go through her laptop." He scanned the documents into his computer and set the screen reader to its maximum speed. He listened intently, resting his chin on his folded hands, while Foggy sat across from him, searching Karen's laptop.

Both men worked in silence until Matt paused his screen reader. "Son of a bitch," he breathed.

"What?"

"She was tracking the locations where the victims were found – "

"Yeah," Foggy interrupted, "she plotted them on a map on her laptop."

Matt shook his head. "No, it's not the locations. It's who owns them. The first two victims were found near buildings owned by Rosalie Carbone."

"The crime boss from uptown?"

"Yeah." Matt nodded, then said softly, as if to himself. "It fits."

Foggy heard him. "What fits?"

"I, uh, went out last night, looking for information."

"And – ?"

"Maleek told me the gun was planted on him. I was tryin' to find out where it came from. So I had a little chat with one of my sources – "

" – or your fists did," Foggy muttered under his breath.

Matt ignored him. " – who sold untraceable Tec-9s to Rosalie Carbone."

"Karen, you're a genius," Foggy declared. "Let's see who owns the other locations." He logged on to the public records database the firm subscribed to and started searching. When his searches were completed, he leaned back in his chair. "Bingo. All of them are adjacent to buildings owned by Carbone. Karen was on the right track. But the killer doesn't use the same place twice. So how does this help us find her?"

"We keep looking, Fog – for other properties she owns in Hell's Kitchen."

A half hour later, Foggy had a list of five vacant buildings owned by Carbone. Matt stood up and grabbed his jacket. "Text the information to my phone. I'm outta here."

Foggy started to object, then stopped himself. They had to do this Matt's way. "Find her!" he called to his friend as he strode out of the office.


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter 8_

Holding the screwdriver and chisel in her right hand, Karen listened to the approaching footsteps. With her left hand, she reached up to touch her mother's necklace. It was gone. _Her mother's necklace._ "That bastard," she thought, as rage welled up in her. She transferred the chisel to her left hand and made her decision. Better to try to take him by surprise than be caught cowering behind the door. When the door started to open, she pushed back on it as hard as she could. Her captor staggered but stayed on his feet. She ran.

"Bitch!" he screamed as he pursued her across the room. He was blocking her path to the only exit. Somehow she had to get past him. She stopped and turned to face him, raising her right arm to stab him with the screwdriver. He grabbed her arm and stopped her. She slashed at his arm with the chisel, opening a gash. He screamed and let go of her arm. She retreated behind the chair and picked it up. When he charged her, she threw it at him, but it didn't stop him. She tried to circle around him to reach the door, but he caught up with her and grabbed her in a bear hug. Still holding the chisel in her left hand, she stabbed down and hit her target. Howling in pain, he released her and doubled over, clutching his groin. She sprinted for the door. Just outside it, she almost collided with Daredevil.

She found herself in another bear hug. "Thank God," he whispered. "Are you OK?"

"Yes, I'm OK, I'm OK. He's in there." She gestured toward the door.

He handed her his phone. "Call Foggy, tell him it's the third location, and to call Brett now."

Karen's captor was getting to his feet when Daredevil entered the room. "Shit," he muttered. Rashly, he charged. Daredevil met him halfway and landed an uppercut to his jaw. He swayed but stayed upright. Then he connected with a roundhouse punch that rocked Daredevil back on his heels. He hit harder than Daredevil expected but lacked fighting skills and didn't know how to defend himself. He telegraphed his punches, and Daredevil dodged or deflected them. Daredevil then went on the offensive, landing punches to his opponent's head and body and lashing out with his right foot to kick him in the rib cage. He groaned and held his hands up in front of his face. Daredevil went in close and landed a series of punches to the kidneys, followed by hits to both sides of his head. His opponent went down. He didn't try to fight back or even get up, but the devil didn't care. Screaming wordlessly, he continued to pummel the man until he was unconscious and covered in blood.

" _Matt! Stop!_ " a woman screamed. "You're gonna kill him."

The devil heard her. Her voice sounded as if she was far away. He knew that voice. He stopped and stood up. "Karen?"

"I'm right here, Matt."

He leaned forward, panting, with his hands on his knees. He breathed in the coppery smell of the other man's blood – and his own. His opponent was still out, but his heartbeat and breathing were steady. He'd live. Minutes passed. The devil retreated. Matt stayed where he was, letting his rage slowly fade away. He stood up straight and took a deep breath, then held out his arms to Karen.

She crossed the room but stopped a few feet away from him. "Jesus, Matt," she whispered. "What the hell was that?" Her heart was racing. She was afraid. Not of her captor. Of him. Of the devil in him.

He let his arms fall to his sides. "Karen, I – " He began. What was he going to say? That he didn't know what got into him? He knew, all right. "Karen, I'm sorry," he said hopelessly.

"No," she said fiercely. "This isn't on you. It's on that piece of shit over there." She gestured in the direction of her still-unconscious captor.

"Maybe. But you were scared – of me." She started to answer him, but he interrupted her before she could speak. "Don't try to deny it. I could tell."

She sighed. "I _was_ scared."

He hung his head. "I would never hurt you like that, Karen."

"I'm not afraid of you, Matt." Her heartbeat was strong and steady. "Not for myself. But that– " she gestured toward the unmoving shape on the floor. "That was scary."

"Maybe you should be," he said quietly, "afraid of me, I mean."

"No." She shook her head. "If that's true, maybe _you_ should be afraid of _me_. I've hurt people, too." She paused for a beat, then continued. "What I _am_ afraid of . . . I'm afraid _for_ you, of what this – " she waved her hand " – could do to you."

Matt had no answer for that. He held out his arms to her again. This time she went to him and embraced him. He lifted her chin to kiss her. "I'm not kissing you in that thing," she said, tapping his mask. He chuckled but didn't take it off. He pressed his gloved fingertips to his lips, then caressed her cheek. She flinched when he touched the gash made by her captor's ring.

He jerked his hand away. "You sure you're OK?" he asked.

"Yes. So what took you so long, Mr. Daredevil?"

He grinned. "I knew you could handle him, Ms. Page."

He heard sirens in the distance. "Cops are coming," he told her.

"Go, go," she said, handing him his phone. "I got this."

"Yeah. I noticed." He squeezed her hand, then turned and sprinted to the stairs. He stayed on the roof until two police cars drove away. One was taking the battered but conscious suspect – whose name, he now knew, was Nick Carbone – to be checked out at the jail ward at Metro-General. He smiled knowingly when he heard the name. Karen had been on the right track all along. The other car was taking Karen to the ER at Metro-General. He called Foggy to let him know, then took off across the rooftops, heading home to change out of his suit, so he could meet Karen and Foggy at the hospital.

It was a long night at Metro-General. The ER was busy, and they had to wait for the on-call plastic surgeon to finish a complicated surgery, before he could stitch Karen up. She didn't want to wait, but Foggy insisted it needed to be done right, to lessen the chance of scarring. Matt suspected Karen might secretly want to have a scar, as a badge of honor.

When Karen was finally discharged from the ER, she went home with Matt. Her apartment was still a crime scene, and she didn't want to go there, anyway. Not yet. She lay down on the bed, and he held her until she fell asleep, exhausted from her ordeal and the many hours in "fight or flight" mode. He unwound more slowly but finally slept for a few hours.

In the morning, they lingered over breakfast, delaying their departure for the 15th Precinct and the unavoidable questioning, statements, and fingerprinting and DNA swabs "for exclusionary purposes." They sipped their coffee in companionable silence, content simply to be in each other's company. When Matt finished his second cup of coffee, he set the mug down on the table and turned toward her. "Why, Karen?" he asked.

"Why what?"

"Why'd you do it, put yourself in harm's way like that?"

Karen scoffed. " _You're_ asking _me_ that?"

"We both know I'm a lost cause," he said with a half-smile. "But, please, help me understand."

"Being kidnapped wasn't part of the plan – "

"Well, _that's_ a relief," he muttered under his breath.

"You wanna hear this or not?" she demanded.

"Sorry. Go on, please." He waved his hand.

"Do you remember what the profiler said about guys like him, how they're hard to catch because they plan carefully, and when they do get caught, it's because they didn't plan?"

Matt nodded. "Yeah, I remember that."

"So I thought, if he was provoked, maybe he wouldn't plan so carefully. Maybe he would make a mistake."

Matt considered this. "OK. That even makes sense, I guess. But why you? Why did _you_ have to do it?"

She didn't answer him right away. He sensed her uncertainty. Then her breathing changed; she had decided to speak. "I don't think I ever told you this before," she began, "but when I left Vermont after . . . after Kevin . . . died, it was because my dad threw me out. He said he didn't want me there anymore."

"Oh, Karen," Matt whispered.

"When I left home, I wasn't much older than those girls – the ones we talked to on the street, the ones Nick killed. If things had turned out differently, I could have been one of them. You know what their lives are like – "

He nodded. "Yeah. I do."

"Their lives are miserable – and then to be taken and killed, probably tortured before they were killed. I couldn't let that keep happening. I _had_ to do something." Her voice trembled. She took a shuddering breath _._ "You of all people should understand that." She began to sob, holding her head in her hands.

"I understand. I do," he said softly. More than anything, he wanted to reach out to her and hold her, but he knew, somehow, that he shouldn't. He had to let her come to him. Finally she did. He held her, stroking her hair and kissing the top of her head, until her sobs subsided. He handed her a tissue, and she wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Then she took both of his hands in hers.

"I need to do . . . what I do . . as much as you need to be Daredevil," she said. "You know that, right?"

"I know." He raised her hands to his lips and kissed them. "God help us, I wouldn't have it any other way."

 _Epilogue_

Maleek Jackson was released from custody the next day. Foggy was already salivating at the prospect of a lawsuit for malicious prosecution, false imprisonment, section 1983 civil rights violations, and any other causes of action he could dream up. Several weeks later, Maleek and Matt went a few rounds in the ring at Fogwell's. Maleek declared the match a draw, but Matt wasn't so sure.

When the cops searched Nick's SUV, his treasure box – including Karen's mother's necklace – was still in the glove compartment. The necklace would be returned to Karen when it was no longer needed as evidence. Weeks later, DNA results finally came back on the victims. Nick's DNA was found on the swabs taken from one of them. Nick agreed to plead guilty to her murder and Karen's kidnapping. The best deal Ben Donovan could negotiate for him was 25 to life.

The two cops who had arrested Maleek caved quickly and flipped on Carlo Morelli. He was found guilty of bribery and conspiracy and sentenced to prison. The cops were both fired from the NYPD but were not criminally charged, in exchange for their testimony and their agreement not to contest their firings.

Rosalie Carbone avoided prosecution. The two cops couldn't implicate her in the conspiracy to frame Maleek. They only dealt with Morelli, who never mentioned her name. Morelli remained loyal, steadfastly refusing to testify against her.

Acting on an anonymous tip and other information, the NYPD raided Turk Barrett's shop and seized dozens of illegal firearms from the back room. Preferring a stretch in custody to a bullet in the back of the head, Turk declined to name his suppliers or his customers. He was convicted on firearms charges and went to prison.

Pete Silva left New York immediately after reporting he had lost the tail on Nick. He eventually made his way to a remote area of Idaho, where he joined a militia.

Lolita and Cherry wondered what happened to Jewel, but only for a few days. On the streets, girls came and went all the time. And Lolita and Cherry had problems of their own. Jewel's grave was never found.


End file.
